Chapter Four
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The one named Owen had been shot. Because of her. Darcy hated that he’d gotten hurt and she was so, so grateful to him.
She was free and leaving the city.
After abandoning the Scythe pickup and putting her in Owen’s car, the males had driven their two cars to a parking lot. In a deserted corner, the men had dressed. Tynan bandaged Owen’s leg and said he’d drive them to Cold Creek in Owen’s car. When Owen insisted he could drive, Tynan rapped two fingers on the cahir’s swollen wrist. Owen’s pain-filled snarl lost him the argument, and he grumpily climbed into the passenger seat.
Darcy stayed stretched out on the back seat.
With Tynan driving, they headed north and onto the freeway.
For what seemed like hours, Darcy lay flat, tense with nerves. Car lights flashed by. Air brakes hissed on the massive trucks. Horns blared sporadically.
Then they were out of the city.
As the land rose, the car engine hummed a lower note, and the stench of gasoline and chemicals faded. First, there was the dusty scent of end-of-summer grass, then the sharper fragrance of evergreens. With a happy sigh, she curled into a ball and fell asleep.
Itching roused her. It felt as if ants were crawling all over her body. In the front seat, Owen absentmindedly rubbed his arm, and watching him made her itch worse. She lifted her hind leg to scratch her neck—and pain battered her senses. She snarled. How could she forget her leg had multiple holes in it?
Owen glanced back. “I’m surprised the itching didn’t wake you sooner. Damn vehicles.”
What did he mean? As she adjusted her position, she watched him rub his back against the seat cushion. Itching. Vehicles? The metal. Of course. She should have recognized the feeling from when she worked with engines. But then she only did repair work with her hands not her whole body. Closing her eyes, she set herself to endure.
“I’m surprised you can stand it,” Owen said to Tynan. “Constantly around metal. Surrounded by humans. Too far from the forests.”
Using the rear view mirror, Darcy could see Tynan’s grim smile. “Since I have blademages in my ancestry, I have more tolerance for iron than most Daonain. The city is irritating though.”
She tilted her head, enjoying the sound of his Irish accent.
“So why do you live there?” Owen asked.
“Well and someday maybe I’ll tell you. This isn’t the day.”
As silence fell, Darcy lowered her head and let herself drift off to the low hum of the motor and the throbbing burn of her wounds.
Dawn was breaking when Tynan pulled the car to a stop.
“I need to call and report we’ve arrived,” Owen said. “Be with you in a minute.”
“I’ll take her.” Tynan slid out and opened the back door. “Let’s be getting you into the house, lass. The healer’s expecting you.”
A healer. Dogwood had been too small to have a healer. Carefully, Darcy jumped off the backseat to the grassy lawn. The shooting pain of landing flattened her ears and made her hiss.
“On with ye.” Motioning her toward the house, Tynan took out a phone and started punching in numbers.
The door to the house opened, and a tall, thickly muscled male strode down the steps and to the car. A trim brown beard covered a strong jaw, and his wavy light brown hair hung to midway down his white cotton shirt. The porch light showed a scar on his cheekbone—a blade resembling a cahir’s but encircled by a full moon. As Darcy tried to recall what the symbol indicated, the male opened the passenger door and frowned at Owen.
Owen shoved his phone into his pocket. “Gawain.”
“Mother of All, brawd. You’re a bloody mess. What’ve you done to yourself?”
“What’ve I done? Wasn’t me filling the air with bullets.” Owen’s annoyed growl had Darcy trying to back up.
Without any fear, his muscular brother lifted the cahir out of the car and to his feet.
Owen spotted her. “Can you make it, little female?” His tone was gruff, almost a snarl, and yet…despite his own pain, he was making sure she was all right.
Unable to answer any other way, she took a few steps forward.
“Good enough. Let’s go get patched up.” Leaning on his brother, he headed up the sidewalk.
In the front doorway waited a tall, lean male with chiseled features like sharp mountain cliffs. He had a tinted scar in the shape of a crescent moon on one cheek. A healer.
Surrounded by the God-touched, Darcy wanted to cower.
“Come on in, people.” The healer motioned them through the door. As Tynan came up the walk, the healer asked, “Are you coming home finally, brawd?”
Tynan clasped the healer’s forearm, and his flashing smile was unexpected. “I am not. I cannot even linger. Alec is driving me to Seattle before the humans notice my car’s been in the parking lot too long.”
Owen turned. “Thanks for the help, cop. I owe you one.”
Tynan’s voice took on an added Irish lilt. “Just keep an eye on this lost little female so she doesn’t stray back into danger.” He ruffled her fur gently, slapped his brother’s arm, and strode back to the street.
“Come, shifters. Let’s get this done.” The healer led her, Owen, and his brother Gawain into a pale green room with a tall rectangular table in the center. A long wooden bench ran along the wall by the door. The far end held sinks, counters, and cabinets.
Darcy limped in.
“Let’s take a look at you, cat.” The healer crouched in front of her and scowled. “What in the God’s green forest did you do to yourself?”
At the anger in his voice, she tried to retreat—and bumped into Owen who stood directly behind her with his brother.
Owen growled low and mean, and Darcy cringed. She shouldn’t have—
“You’re right, cahir. I was rude.” The healer cupped her muzzle gently. “Sorry, female. I forget not everyone is used to my blunt ways. I’m Donal, the healer in Cold Creek.”
Owen hadn’t growled at her, but the healer. Why? Because he thought the healer had hurt her feelings? The sense of being cared for was so strange she wasn’t sure what to think.
Taking his time, the healer looked her over, and his mouth flattened. “That’s a bullet hole in your hind leg. And another across your ribs.”
“We will need information about how those injuries occurred.” The resonant, English-accented voice came from the doorway behind Darcy.
When she tried to turn, her legs failed. She sank to the floor, panting, and looked over her shoulder.
Silent as a panther, a male had entered the room. Black hair, gray eyes. Tall and lean. The air around him crackled with power.
“Cosantir. Good timing.” Donal inclined his head and rose.
A Cosantir. Dread constricted Darcy’s lungs. In the city, humans had known she was a shifter and chased her. Would the Guardian of this territory listen to her—or banish her for putting the Daonain at risk?
She couldn’t explain, not in this form.
The Cosantir’s gaze met hers, and she could feel the wash of power. “When Owen called, he said you were unable to trawsfur back to human. Is that true?”
Would he kill her if she couldn’t?
She hated that she knew more about humans than about her own people. It was her brother’s fault for being such a blabbermouth that their mother had stopped talking about the Daonain.
The Cosantir was still waiting for her answer. Shifters “shift,” and she couldn’t. She was…defective. Her head lowered in shame.
“Hmm.”
She could feel his gaze on her. He took a seat on the bench against the wall, and she eased herself around to face him.
“There’s a door—something akin to a door—in the back of your mind,” he said. “Can you see it at all?”
Oh, she could. The door was overgrown and blocked with vines. How many hours had she spent tearing at those vines with mental claws? Her ears flicked in an unspoken affirmative.
“Will the door open?”
She shook her head.
“I see.” He leaned forward, put his hand under her muzzle, and lifted her head. “Look at me, little female.” His soft voice held a ruthless command she couldn’t oppose.
Her gaze met his.
His eyes were darkening, turning black—black meant something, she knew. She tried to pull back, but his grip tightened. There was no escape possible. His voice deepened. No one could fail to recognize the infinite voice of the God. “Trawsfur.”
The power he held blazed into her, filled her mind with terrifying flames. The vines holding the door shut shriveled and turned to ash. As the door banged open, a gust of wind and heat pushed her through.
Her head spun, and she gasped for air. Her arms collapsed, dropping her to her elbows. Elbows. She opened her eyes and stared at her hands. Dirty, scratched…hands. “I’m human.”
“Aye.” The Cosantir’s voice was grim. “Now, turn around, find the door, and trawsfur back to cat. On your own.”
No. She never wanted to go back to being a cat. What if she got stuck again? She stared at him. “B-b-but…”
“Now.”
His eyes were still black, and a shiver ran up her spine. No, no, no. Yet, denying him was impossible. Her gaze lifted to the other men.
Standing near her, Gawain looked surprised.
Owen sat farther down the bench, injured leg extended, swollen wrist in his lap. His harsh expression matched that of the Cosantir’s. “Do it. Now. Find the door.”
Her hands closed into fists, but she mentally turned. She frowned. The door had closed again, darkened, and somehow moved away from her. So far away. As she headed for it, her energy drained away like water.
Finally, she reached the door. Her hands flattened on the ancient, scarred wood, but this time when she shoved, the door opened with a rasping creak into brightness.
As she stepped through, a wave of…of love ran from her paws into her whole body. It was as if her mother had returned and enfolded her in a hug. She realized she was lying on the floor in panther shape—and purring.
“Thanks be to the Mother,” the Cosantir murmured. “Excellent. My assistance didn’t break the connection. Trawsfur back, and you can stay human.”
With a sense of relief, Darcy turned in her mind. The door was there, plain as could be, and she stepped through.
“Very good.” The Cosantir sat back on the bench.
To her surprise, Owen’s brother came over with a soft blanket. “Come, let’s get you warm.” Wrapping it around her, he helped her stand.
Her leg gave out immediately—and she realized she really didn’t feel well at all. His arm around her waist was the only thing holding her up.
“Easy, pretty panther.” Gawain’s voice was a composed rumble. He scooped her into his arms.
After a second of jarring pain, she relaxed, feeling the iron bands of his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. His chest was immense and hard—and he carried her as if she weighed nothing.
He smelled of musky male and the compelling wildness of a shifter with a curious iron tang. She wanted to bury her face against his chest and sniff.
“On the table, please,” the healer said.
The counter-high table was a heavy, dark wood. Not metal—it wasn’t metal. Yet the size and height matched a Scythe laboratory table. Her stomach twisted, and she clutched Gawain’s shirt. “No. No, please, don’t strap me down.”
His blue eyes darkened with his frown. He looked at the table. “Aren’t any straps, catling.”
No straps? She took a breath and looked. With an effort, she unclamped her fingers from his shirt. “I… Sorry.”
Very gently, Gawain set her on the table, then touched her cheek and moved away, leaving her with a sense of abandonment.
“Little female.” The Cosantir walked up to the table. His eyes were now gray, not black. “I’m Calum and Cosantir of this territory. Can you give me your name?”
Her name. She had to push through the remnants of terror to remember it. “Darcy. Darcy MacCormac.” Hauling in a fortifying breath, she recalled the manners her mother had tried to teach her. “Ah, it’s good to meet you.”
His lips curved up slightly. “Darcy, can—”
A throat was cleared.
The Cosantir glanced over his shoulder, and his lips twitched. “Yes, Donal. I do recall. Healing before answers.” His gaze returned to her. “I’ll return in a while.”
“Yes, Cosantir.”
Calum turned. “Cahir, let’s talk in the other room.”
Owen pushed to his feet.
No! He was the only person she knew, although, she didn’t…really…know him. But he’d fought for her. Saved her. She clenched her hands to keep from calling him back.
Owen glanced at her and stopped, studying her more slowly. “Gawain.” The one word was low.
“Aye.” Gawain moved forward from his place against the wall. “I’ll watch over her, brawd.”
Donal snorted. “I wasn’t planning to slaughter her, cahir.”
Ignoring the healer, Owen met her eyes again. After a long moment, he nodded at her and left.
Loss swept through her, and she made a noise that sounded far too much like a whimper.
“Shhh. You’re going to be fine.” Owen’s brother put an arm around her waist, bracing her against his hard, warm body.
“Another female, half-starved, dehydrated, and injured.” Donal stood in front of her. “This is growing familiar. I hear the males found you in Seattle?”
She tried to answer, but her voice had dried up. Now she was in human form, and the pain was increasing, taking over her world.
“That’s what Owen said,” Gawain answered.
“That benighted city.” Donal made a disgusted harrumph. “Don’t you know better, girl? Cities drain your magic faster than you can devour a mouse.” He pulled the blanket off her right side, studied the bullet’s furrow over her ribs and the gouge in her arm she’d made to remove the tracker. Then he checked her right thigh and the bullet wound in her calf. The lines in his face grew deeper. “Whoever shot you got you good.”
The healer’s eyes shone startling silver in his tanned face. “Have you ever been healed before?”
“I’ve never even met a healer.”
His chuckle was smooth. “I hope you’re properly honored. Now, there is good and bad news. The good: I can heal your injuries. The bad: because it’s been so long since you were hurt, you’ll have scars. And…” His mouth tightened.
“And?” Dread curled in her stomach.
“It will hurt when I clean the wounds, and when I take the bullet out.” He nodded at Gawain. “Can you hold her?”
Rather than answering, Gawain moved to where she could look at him. “Darcy. Will you let me hold you so you don’t move when the healer is working on your injuries?”
His eyes were a quiet blue, as calm as a high mountain lake.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Such a brave little female. Gawain had noticed that, despite being forced into a trawsfur and questioned by the Cosantir, the little female had been most terrified by the table. He wrapped his fingers around Darcy’s small, cold hand and studied her.
Black wavy hair fell to her low back and was streaked with dirt. Her heart-shaped face was pretty, but her cheeks were hollowed from lack of food. Beneath her tilted upper lip, her full lower lip trembled. Her dark brown eyes were wide, and the scent of fear hung in the air.
She was still scared. When he put his arm around her and she leaned against him, the act of trust squeezed his heart.
Donal set a bunch of ominous healer instruments on a wheeled table-tray. “Would you prefer to lie down or remain sitting, Darcy?”
Her gaze never left the tools. “Sitting, please.”
“Gawain, from behind, bear hug her with your arms over hers.”
Restrain her, but with muscle rather than chains. Gawain stood at the head of the table and slid her toward him until her back was against his chest and waist. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her and pinned her arms to her sides.
She didn’t struggle, but he could feel her breathing speed up.
“This liquid helps with the pain.” Donal squirted something in the furrow across her ribs. “If you haven’t been healed before, you might not know we don’t use human pain medications. They blur a shifter’s mind, and if you’re scared, you’re liable to shift to cat form.” His lean face held a sardonic amusement. “A pissed-off cat, no less.”
Yeah, Gawain didn’t want to find himself holding an annoyed cougar.
Darcy’s resonant voice was husky with pain. “I understand.”
When the healer picked up a massive water-filled syringe with a narrow tube on the end, Darcy made an appalled sound.
To divert her attention, Gawain quickly asked, “Why did you think Donal would strap you to a table?”
“I want the answer to that as well.” Calum walked to the table opposite Donal.
Limping back into the room, Owen dropped onto the bench and put his leg up. Gawain nodded at him, thinking his littermate must have given Calum a very short report. Then again, Owen wasn’t much for chatter.
“Good timing, people. All of you can keep her occupied. I fear this is going to hurt.” Donal gave Gawain a warning glance.
As Gawain tightened his hold, the healer forcefully squirted water into the bullet gouge, holding a towel to catch the dirty, bloody fluid.
Gasping, Darcy jerked, but Gawain kept her still. When tears filled her eyes, he wanted to knock Donal across the room.
“You were going to tell us about a table?” Owen’s rough voice was oddly gentle.
After a second, she said in a hoarse voice, “They—they call themselves the Scythe. They strapped the adults to the tables. Cutting away pieces. Dissecting us. They killed many of the grownups, trying to discover what made us shifters. The rest died in the cages.”
The Cosantir’s face turned icy cold, and the same chill spread through Gawain’s bloodstream.
“Where did this happen?” Calum asked.
As Donal flushed the wound again, she whimpered and muffled it immediately.
By the Hunter and the Mother, she was a brave young female.
She pulled in a breath. “My home is—was—Dogwood. It was a tiny village, and all of us were captured by the Scythe.”
“Dogwood?” Gawain frowned. “Up in the mountains in Mt. Hood Territory?”
“You know it?” she asked.
“I lived in that territory until recently.”
Calum frowned. “Did they take both humans and Daonain?”
“We had no humans there. The population was all shifters.” Her breathing hitched. “They shoved us in trucks and burned the whole village. I could see the flames as we were driven away.”
Darcy struggled not to break down. But even the healer’s cleaning job was less agonizing than remembering the bodies in the streets. Their cozy cottage engulfed in fire. “We—Mum and my littermates—had only lived in Dogwood a couple of months.”
The healer put his syringe down. “All clean. Let’s get this wound closed, so you have one less place hurting you.” He flattened his palms over her ribs, bent his head, and closed his eyes.
Deep in the wound, a heavy tingling awakened. Like the slow melting of snow in the spring, the pain receded.
Donal lifted his hands. “One down. Take a minute to recover while I check Owen over.” After rewrapping the blanket around her, he motioned the cahir to precede him through the doorway.
A second later, the healer’s voice came clearly from the other room. “Did I not order you to take it easy with your foreleg? You’ve re-broken your wrist, you gnome-brained idiot.” The volume increased. “And what is this hole? By Herne’s hairy balls, you must have been moving slower than a drunken dwarf for a human to put a bullet in you.”
Head tilted, the Cosantir listened to the ranting with a smile tugging on his lips. Then he looked at her and his amusement disappeared. “After you were captured, Darcy, where did the Scythe take you?”
“Somewhere in Seattle. At first, they kept us in a basement.” She pulled in a breath. Be clear, tinker. This is a Cosantir, and the Daonain need to be warned. “In metal cages, below ground. For a…I’m not sure…for months?” They hadn’t been allowed to talk, to be together. Could only hear the screams coming from the rooms with the metal tables. “Everyone who was over thirteen, who had shifted at least once, they all died. The babies died. When the children who were still alive got sick, the Scythe moved us out of the cages and the basement.”
Gawain’s embrace had changed from restraint to reassurance, and his every exhalation held a growl.
She took strength from his anger and concern.
The Cosantir frowned. “Where are your littermates? I see your bonds to them are intact.”
He could tell? When Mum died and the mother-cub bond had broken, Darcy’d felt as if her heart had torn apart. But deep within, the warmly glowing links to her siblings still remained. “My brothers—and all the males—were kept somewhere else. Because they’re useful. The males were able to trawsfur when they got to thirteen or so. None of us females could shift, and no one knows why.”
Gawain’s body tensed. “When the males got to thirteen? Darcy, how long ago were you captured?”
Every year felt like a boulder piling onto her body. “Over ten years ago.”
As the color in the Cosantir’s eyes darkened, she kept talking, and the words spilled out like water from a broken faucet. “The Scythe are using the males as soldiers and spies. Shifter-soldiers. All the females are kept in the Seattle prìosan.”
“If they can’t use the females as shifters, why didn’t they kill you?” Calum asked in an even voice.
“We’re hostages.” Hatred tasted bitter in her mouth. “As long as they have a male’s sister, they can make him do whatever they want.”
The ache in her heart increased as she told them, “They told Firth to assassinate some politician, and he refused, so they…they tortured his sister until she died. Broke her…” Darcy swallowed despite her dry throat. “Ripped her s-skin off. They made us watch and showed the video to the males. After that, everyone cooperated.”
The growls behind her turned deadly, and she felt Gawain’s blazing anger.
The Cosantir didn’t speak. The power around him was an unsettling thrum in the air before he simply turned and walked away, brushing past Donal and Owen as he left the room.
Feeling as if ice was filling her, she pulled the blanket closer.
Owen was watching her with eyes the dark green of a forest at night. “You were imprisoned for over a decade?”
She nodded.
Donal walked up to the table. “That partly explains why you couldn’t trawsfur. Breanne didn’t shift until she was over twenty—because she lived in the city and took those drugs.” He moved the blanket off her wounded leg. “Let’s get the rest of these holes closed up.”
Still leaning against Gawain, she had her legs straight in front of her. The healer gripped her right leg and poured the so-called numbing liquid into the gunshot wound in her calf.
Pain. It felt as if he’d shoved a red-hot stick in her leg. Her leg tore from his grip.
“I’m going to need both hands, so Owen, could you could hold her leg, please?”
“Aye, Donal.” Owen curled a big hand around her ankle and his other above her knee, then added his weight to press her leg against the table. “What drugs were you on, Darcy?”
“I don’t know what you mean. We didn’t take any medicine or drugs.”
“The stuff that keeps females from having children.” Donal turned to the equipment table, ready to start.
Oh Gods, more pain. Darcy tensed.
Gawain’s arms tightened around her. Behind her, his body was a warm, breathing wall. She rested her head back against his shoulder.
“Medicine?” Owen prompted.
Stuff to keep females from having children? “You mean birth control? Yes. After a human raped a shifter, they stuck something in our arms to make sure none of us got pregnant. They used to replace it every few years, but the nurse was killed, um, about four years ago. Since then, a medical person only visits if someone’s injured.”
“Breanne took pills, but what you’re talking about sounds like a hormone implant.” The healer ran his palms up and down her arms. “There it is. It would be best to remove this right away. May I?”
Hormones. Trackers—and hormones. They kept putting horrible things in her body. “I hate this,” she whispered, then looked at the healer. “Yes, take it out.”
“I’m sorry, Darcy. If you grit your teeth, I’ll be as fast as I can.” When she nodded that she was ready, he picked up a razor and sliced her arm. The pain made her gasp, but within a second, he’d plucked out the implant and healed the cut. Only a tiny pink line remained. He’d even healed the spot where she’d removed the tracker.
Darcy blinked. He really had been fast. Her arm didn’t hurt any longer, and the trackers and foreign implant were gone. Each breath she took was freer. Her body was more and more her own, except for one spot. “Can you take the bullet out of my leg now, too? Please?”
Obviously braced for her to ask the opposite, Donal gave her a nonplussed stare.
Gawain chuckled. “Never underestimate a female.”
Still holding her leg, Owen studied her, his brows pulled into a line.
“All right, Darcy. Since you’re ready…” The healer examined the ugly hole in her calf, and his expression darkened.
She could see the skin around it was crimson and puffy. Red streaks of infection extended upward. “I’m ready.”
After the healer cleaned the hole out, the true torture started.
As Donal used forceps to dig for the bullet, fire erupted in her leg, and she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Sweat broke out on her face, tears ran down her face, and she…endured.
“Almost…” With a pleased sound, the healer pulled out the forceps and dropped the bullet onto the instrument table. “By the Mother, you’re a brave female. Didn’t even try to claw me.”
“She is brave, isn’t she?” Gawain released her and ran his hands up and down her arms.
At her feet, Owen studied her.
He’d been so brave, had drawn off the dogs, had run for the truck on a broken foreleg. And she was sitting here bawling. Sit up and act like an adult, tinker. With a shaky breath, she wiped her face.
“One more minute, and I’ll have this closed.” Donal bent his head, his hands on either side of her leg wound, and she stared as the hole filled with tissue, as the skin grew over the hole.
Donal straightened, ran his finger over the slightly dented, shiny pink skin, and scowled. “I’m sorry, lass. This one will have a scar.”
“Sorry?” She stared. “I’m alive. You got the bullet out and closed the hole. What do I care about scars?”
Owen’s gaze met hers, his surprise obvious.
Not noticing, Donal laughed. “You’re a prize, my sweet. Now, since healing takes a toll, you’ll be sleepy for another day, tired for a week. You can—and should—trawsfur to cat and back. Since the repaired tissue remains fragile for a few days, take it easy. You’re underweight, so eat more, especially meat. Am I clear?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You sound like Calum’s Vicki.”
The scary Cosantir had a mate? Her mind boggled at the thought. The female was probably over six feet tall, hugely muscled, and as scary as Calum himself. Maybe the female was a grizzly shifter or—
The Cosantir walked in, and Darcy flushed, feeling as if she’d been caught doing something embarrassing. Calum’s gaze ran over her, and he glanced at the healer. “Donal, are you finished?”
“Almost. There’s just this mess on her thigh.” He poked at it, making her wince, and clucked his tongue. “Were you in a knife fight? Why did someone stab you several times in the same spot?”
“I stabbed myself. There was a GPS tracker in my leg, and I couldn’t find it at first.” Yawning, she sagged against Gawain. As her fear waned, so did her energy. Somehow, the table had turned into quicksand, pulling her down into its softness.
As her eyes closed, she heard Owen ask, “A tracker. Is that something they could use to locate you?”
“Mmmhmm. I removed it and the one in my arm and smashed them with a rock.”
She felt the healer’s fingers run over the wound, and pain flared. “There’s nothing in there now.” Heat tingled deep in her thigh muscles, moving outward as he healed the sliced flesh.
“I need to find the shifter-soldiers. To tell them…” Her thoughts drifted away despite her attempts to cling to them. “I need to find them.”
“Check for other surprises,” the Cosantir said quietly.
The healer ran his hands over her, head to toes. “Help me turn her over, cahir.”
She was slid down on the table and rolled over. They were being very careful not to hurt her. Wasn’t that lovely?
Light hands ran over her scalp. Her neck, shoulders, and down. “Nothing else, Calum. I’ll check on her tomorrow, but I’m done for today.”
“Excellent. Owen, Gawain, please take Darcy to the Wildwood Lodge. Zeb and Shay have a room for her in the main cabin.”
“Aye, Cosantir.” That was Gawain’s smoother voice. Owen made only a sound of assent.
Donal cleared his throat. “Cosantir, save me some work and order your cahir to take a few days of rest. At the lodge, not his cabin. His broken wrist and the new wound need time to heal—and he’s more stubborn than a boggart spotting salt.”
Calum huffed a laugh. “You heard the healer, cahir. Consider that an order.”
Darcy thought Owen’s rude response wasn’t nearly as muffled as it should have been considering he was answering a Cosantir.
She tried to open her eyes to see how the guardian had reacted to being snarled at, but…someone had tied boulders to her eyelids. That was discourteous. Honestly, she needed to get on her feet. To find Fell and Patrin. To help…
Her thoughts faded away like mist dissipated by a warm sun.